


Wait

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester<br/>Pairing: Destiel<br/>Genre: Castiel's POV, set in the near-ish future.<br/>Rating: PG-13<br/>Words: 5,500<br/>"Thirty years, in the life of an angel, is nothing. It registers not even as a bump - in the scheme of things, it doesn’t even really register. Thirty years, sixty, the lifetime of a man, passes for an angel like a second, and is easily wasted."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait

“It looks good.” Sam is leaning in the doorway, a box between his large hands, full to the brim with what Castiel assumes are kitchen implements. Dean, extremely pleased with this assessment, grins at them both as Castiel hangs back behind them, in his own hands a box of books that once belonged to Bobby Singer.

“It’s alright, isn’t it? Cleaned up pretty well.” This is an understatement, because if Castiel remembers correctly, it wasn’t long ago that this house was just a pile of rubble, burned to the ground. Dean sets down his own box, leaving Castiel still in the doorway, unsure of his place in this scene. Dean looks at him expectantly. “C’mon, Cas. Last box and I’m moved in.” He grins, and Sam huffs and says something about _actually unpacking for once in your life_ under his breath as he goes into the kitchen, ostensibly to put the things in his box in the cupboards. Castiel lingers on the threshold of the house, silent until Dean goes over exasperatedly and takes the box from his hands, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor almost as soon as he’s taken hold of it. “Moved. Done.” He brushes off his hands, more a symbolic gesture than anything actually functional, then eyes Castiel appraisingly. “You wanna stay and celebrate, Cas? We’ve got beer around here somewhere. It’ll probably be warm from the drive, but – you know. Better than nothing.” He grins hopefully but Castiel shakes his head.

“I have things to attend to.” He says quietly, though really, he tells himself, they should be past this formality. Maybe it’s seeing Dean Winchester settled, in a house – maybe it’s that Sam is married, that he has a child on the way, that they are both approaching their forties with alarming speed, whilst Castiel stays the way he has always been. It could be any or none of these things, but the bottom line is that he cannot stay. Dean looks disappointed.

“Well. You know where we are, if you ever wanna stop by.” His voice is so dejected that Castiel almost takes his decision back – but he doesn’t. He _can’t_ stay.

“Thankyou, Dean.” He says earnestly, nodding, and then he is gone.

xxx

He is tired, but still he knows it has happened even before he hears the call. He is out in the desert when he hears it; what he does, mostly, these days is _listen._ He’s never paid much attention to the voices of the earth before, their cacophony a distracting and disorienting thing, but sometimes now they speak directly to him, tell him their versions of truths, and it makes him feel as if he’s trying, at very least, to atone.

He appears in the house in Sioux Falls immediately, the cold air rushing over him, a sharp contrast to the hot desert sun. Dean is nowhere – not in his bedroom, not in the kitchen singing ridiculous songs with satanic lyrics that used to offend Castiel. He’s not in the garden, either, but Castiel can _feel_ him nearby, and can feel that he is hurting. Badly, perhaps. The only reason he finds Dean at all is because he goes outside on a whim, hoping he is mistaken and will find him working on a car somewhere, completely fine and full of his usual teasing, utterly infuriating humor.

The yard is mostly deserted; heaps of scrap lie everywhere, mostly unchanged since Castiel was last here, months ago. The cars littered around, half-fixed, are different to before; there are more of them, some half-torn apart, some simply waiting - but they hardly draw his attention because the Impala, Dean’s beloved machine, is sitting on the border of the yard, and slumped at the wheel is the man himself.

He rushes over, opens the Impala’s door and stares for a second at Dean lying heavily on the steering wheel, his head pressed into the plastic, his eyes closed. Castiel touches his spine and can feel his heart there, strong, though the cut bleeding steadily over the dashboard is still a worry. At a loss for other action he slips his arms underneath Dean’s, and hauls him bodily out of the car. He can’t fly into the house – has wasted his strength already just flying _here,_ and needs the rest for healing, and for getting back – and not knowing the nature of the injury, he can hardly take Dean to the hospital (he also suspects Dean would be less than pleased to wake in a hospital bed).

Castiel drags him across the vacant scrapyard, wincing at every bump in their path, Dean’s eyes still resolutely shut even as Castiel pulls him up the steps to Bobby’s old house. He mutters, “You are an idiot.” To himself, even though Dean can’t hear. Talking to himself is a habit he’s acquired from spending far too much time with humans. He makes it up the stairs, Dean’s chest warm under his hands, which is a relief. Blood is trickling slowly down the side of Dean’s face, and he suspects that is not the full extent of his injuries. He gets Dean to the sofa in the middle of the house and heaves him onto it, his strength lessened with the lessening of his grace. Even once on the sofa, Dean does not stir.

Castiel takes a deep breath and places his hand on the mark that connects him to Dean, and imagines Dean whole; rebuilds him, at least partially, again. He knows this body better than he knows his vessel’s - every vein, every cell, every freckle. He knits Dean’s skin back together, fades the bruises away, carefully erases the trauma done to his temples. When he is finished, Dean blinks blearily; looks at Castiel, even, but there is little recognition in his eyes.

Satisfied, Castiel allows himself a breath, finally; he places his hand over Dean’s eyes, makes him sleep; and then he is back in the desert, listening.

He lies with his ear to the ground, all strength gone from inside him; his skin is hot against the sand and as he falls unwillingly asleep he can hear the ground talking; it sounds a lot like Dean Winchester’s quickening breath.

xxx

Dean is on the phone when he goes out, in frustrated conversation with a terrified hunter, someone young, trying to take down a vampire – or a group of them, by the sounds of his hysterical screaming on the other end of the receiver. Castiel mouths, ‘ _I’m going now’_ at him, and Dean shoots him a bemused smile, raising a hand goodbye as he sighs exasperatedly at the hunter on the other end of the line, crossing one leg over the other on his desk. “No, _remove_ the _head._ I don’t care if you get blood on you, dude, that’s how you _do_ it.” He watches Castiel leave even as he speaks, and the angel feels his gaze on his back as he goes out the door.

He drives now, mostly, his power drained by the loss of his brethren, his severed connection with heaven. He still does not eat or sleep (not often, anyhow), but flying is exhausting, and he only misses it vaguely since Dean taught him to drive. He is still not allowed to drive the Impala unaccompanied, but he makes do with the old truck Bobby left the Winchesters, the one Dean calls ‘ _a piece of shit’,_ a clear note of affection in his voice. Dean works on the truck on weekends, despite his apparent contempt; since he started doing so, it’s been a lot easier to handle.

Castiel shrugs himself into the truck’s cab and starts the engine, always marvelling a little at how easily these actions have become second nature to him; he might know every language ever spoken on earth - he’s a quick learner - but just a few weeks ago he’d been bunny-hopping the truck across the field they were practising in, stalling the engine, Dean choking laughter and doubled-up in his seat as Castiel tried desperately to remember which pedal was the gas and which was the brake. Dean was a good teacher, but too honest for his liking, especially when he ruffled Castiel’s hair patronisingly and said “Maybe we’ll just get you a bike.”

Sam doesn’t live far away – even with his wife, his daughter, with going back to school to get his law degree, it is nigh-impossible to ever truly separate the Winchesters. They see each other often, though Dean will sometimes cancel these meetings in favor of a hunt and send Castiel in his stead – Sam does little to disguise his disapproval when this happens, as not only is Castiel a poor substitute for Dean (and he knows it) but Dean is well into middle-age, now, and Sam worries for him terribly, experienced hunter or not. Castiel is loath to admit it but he worries, too, and is glad when Dean’s day is spent mostly on the phone rather than out in the action himself.

He greets Sam, like usual, and finds him amidst a mess of papers; a familiar sight – except now these papers are for his exams, his messy handwriting scrawled all over them, exclamation points marking the parts which Sam considers especially important. He explains the situation, apologizes, and as usual Sam nods and says little about it, though his disapproval is written boldly across his face.

Sam makes coffee though, for them both – makes it milky and sweet, remembering rightly that this is the only way Castiel can hope to drink it. He sits opposite the angel, settling himself again in his nest of papers. This point is easy – they talk about Sam’s degree, his wife, his daughter, of whom Castiel is very fond. Then silence settles gracefully over them, and Dean, professional elephant in the room, once again becomes their focus. Castiel supposes it’s mostly habit that all they talk about is Dean – he is, after all, their main thing in common.

Sam asks the usual – is he eating, is he drinking too much, is he risking his neck like an asshole – Castiel answers, in a roundabout sort of way, yes to all three and then, clearing his throat slightly, says to the room at large, “It saddens me that he has never had everything.”

Sam raises his head from his coffee, looking confused. “What are you talking about?”

Castiel frowns. Tact will never be his strong suit – Dean reminds him rather hypocritically of this fact on a daily basis. “A family. A life. He never had what you have. There was a time when it was all he wanted; and now it’s too late.” He says matter-of-factly, and Sam’s frown deepens.

“But, Cas,” he starts, clearly perplexed, “ I thought he had _you_.”

Castiel thinks about that for a long time, and it takes him even longer to understand.

xxx

He pulls up to the yard after leaving Sam’s house, and can see Dean from the mouth of it, his denim-clad legs protruding from underneath the car he is currently working on. It seems the hunt was cancelled, or perhaps he carried it out over the phone; either way, Dean is neither injured, nor dead, nor dying, which can only be a good thing.

From this angle he could be anyone; just another mechanic, hands covered in oil, black thumbprints on the edges of all his t-shirts. No bystander could know that there are sigils and runes inked onto his skin, that there’s a mobile in his pocket he checks constantly for news of a hunt. No one looking on could know that there is, still, the mark of an angel’s hand burned fiercely into his shoulder. The thought makes Castiel’s body flush with strange heat.

He parks the truck and gets out; when he reaches the car that Dean is working on, his voice comes, muffled, from underneath it. “Gimme a minute, Cas.” Castiel does. He waits, silently, beside the car, watching Dean’s legs shift as he works. Perhaps twenty minutes later Dean finally slides out from underneath, and looks surprised to see him still standing there. “You could have said something.” He laughs, shaking his head, and pulls himself up so he’s sitting on the board he’s been lying on. “What’s up?” he picks up a rag from the floor beside his feet and wipes his hands on it. Castiel suddenly finds it difficult to speak.

“Do you regret your life, Dean?” he manages, surprising even himself with his question. Dean frowns, and to Castiel’s surprise, considers it.

“Do I wish I’d been a normal kid? Sure. Sometimes.” He pauses. “But what’s the point in wishing? Trust me, Cas – personal experience; it gets you nowhere. Best just to deal with what you got.”

Castiel falters when Dean looks up at him. “Sam said that instead of a wife and a family, you have me.” He grits out, shocking himself with his ridiculous non-sequiturs. He’s ashamed of the fear in his voice – Dean laughs, again.

“Sam’s an idiot.”

Castiel wrings his hands silently, yet another human habit, this time one he’s picked up from the other Winchester. Dean tilts his head at him, looking up, and then pushes himself wearily to his feet. He stands close to Castiel, and only now does the angel start to understand the concept of ‘personal space’, because all he wants in this moment is to run, or fly, far away from Dean and his sudden proximity. Dean’s voice is hushed, embarrassed, tentative when he next speaks; there’s an edge of humor to it, as always, but now it feels earnest rather than like a camouflage. “I kinda thought you knew _._ ” He says quietly. Dean’s green eyes are right there, looking at him with a surety that he never expected. “No, Cas.” He says, using the nickname, something which Castiel suspects he will never get used to. “I don’t regret my life.” He smiles. Castiel replies in kind.

xxx

He’s in the kitchen when Dean finally comes downstairs around midday, and he busies himself in the kitchen, half-humming, half-singing, before he turns around and yelps, seeing Castiel sitting there.

“ _Jesus,_ Cas!” he says, hand against his chest. “Did we talk about fair warnings? You scared the shit outta me!”

“Sorry.” He says, blinking at Dean, who is breathing out now, calming himself. “Sam asked me to see you. He said you haven’t been answering his texts.”

Dean shrugs. “There are some hunters up in Georgia keeping me busy. Tell him I’m sorry. I’ll call him tonight.”

Castiel nods and pushes his chair away, standing up to leave before Dean, arms folded over his chest, calls him back.

“Cas.” Castiel turns in the kitchen doorway. “Are we not going to – it’s been two fucking weeks.”

At first the angel doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and then it comes back – the yard, Dean’s face close to his, the air still around them. The sharp, acrid smell of rubber and oil. The tilt in Dean’s smile when he stepped away.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean frowns, hesitant. “Not really.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

Dean sighs. “I don’t want to get into it, or anything - all this – ‘raised you from perdition’ crap is a bit much, to be honest.” He chuckles softly. Castiel watches him in silence. “But you could stay, maybe. A little. I mean, before, you were practically living here. I miss you, man.”

Castiel really has no excuse for his absence. He doesn’t really understand why Dean enjoys his company – he’s not even the funny one – but he’ll take it; and, admittedly, he’s missed Dean, too. “It’s too late for breakfast.” He points out, and Dean smiles wryly.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Sam. Breakfast time is subjective.”

Castiel opens his mouth to point out that no, it really is not, but thinks better of it and follows Dean to the kitchen counter. Dean digs in the cupboards, presumably for food, then stops. He closes the cupboard and, leaning against it, says, “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Castiel does something else, then; something more human even than wringing his hands, or talking to himself, or imagining this scenario a thousand times before, against his better judgement. He takes Dean’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

In his imaginings never did he think that Dean might not have shaved for a few days; that his stubble might scratch against Castiel’s skin, that his breath might be stale from sleep, that out of all the things he’s seen and felt, it might feel _significant_.

 Dean lifts his hands and settles them at Castiel’s neck, and he can feel how calloused those hands are, the pads of each digit hard on his skin. He never realized before that he’s been _waiting_ for this – and he certainly never considered that they both might have been.

He pulls away and Dean grins, sliding his hand up to cup Castiel’s cheek, to rub his thumb over the curve under his eye. “You’re staying, then?” He says; his lips brush Castiel’s when he talks.

Castiel could try to be funny here, but he knows it doesn’t suit him. He opts for honesty, instead. “Yes.”

xxx

Dean calls him ‘baby’.

Only sometimes; he gasps it against Castiel’s flesh, says it into his mouth, against his shoulder, on his hip. Castiel has to smile, amused because he’s so far from babyhood – he’s older than oceans, has seen the dawn of humanity, the making of everything that exists today - and yet this man sees fit to name him ‘baby’; like he does his car. Of all the ways that Dean has rechristened him, this is perhaps his favorite; it’s a moniker only he has heard, and one that Dean can’t seem to help. It comes spontaneously, Dean seemingly just as surprised as Castiel when he mouths against his neck or his shoulder, body curved against him, hand wrapped around his cock, and in-between huffing breaths, keening into Castiel’s grip, gasps, “Come on, baby.”, the word slipping from his mouth like the strangest and most excellent of prayers.

He knew before they got into this that Dean wasn’t much for words. Action is where he places himself; where he can express what he prefers not to with his voice, but sometimes Dean’s words are, at least, a supplement to his great and wonderful actions. Nicknames are special with him, a way of taking ownership of things. Castiel is ‘Cas’, Sam is ‘Sammy’, both names that Dean created, both for things that love him dearly.

For someone who talks about porn so flippantly, who was so enthusiastic about getting Castiel laid so many years ago, he is tenuous in his touching, holding back, never moving forward without permission. Like ‘baby’, Castiel is unfamiliar with being treated as if he will break, but it is, he finds, not unwelcome.

Even after Castiel essentially moved in to Bobby Singer’s old house – an easy thing, considering he owns literally nothing – Dean still kept a respectful distance.  He stayed affectionate when they were alone – sometimes pressing his forehead against the back of Castiel’s neck when he was at the sink, sometimes kissing him for no reason other than to have done it – but they slept in separate beds.

It was a joke, ‘at home’, with his brothers and sisters. They didn’t understand, found watching it almost like sport, found it messy and ridiculous and, surely, _embarrassing_ for all involved. Never did they connect sex to love – love is a strange thing, and Castiel had reserved all of his for God before things got so infinitely more complicated. Now he thinks that he and Dean love one another, though they have never said it. It’s not confined to Dean, either – he’s found that he loves Sam, loves Sam’s family, can love a morning or a word or a song, all in different, difficult-to-define ways, all separate but not diminished. It takes him a while to realize that, like faith, there is no hierarchy when it comes to love; one does not presuppose the other, one does not rank higher or lower than its neighbor. He can love a million things and still love Dean, and not be splitting that love into pieces.

 He makes the bridge between sex and love much more easily, after realising it.

Dean sometimes laughs at him because it happened mostly by accident – after living together for three months, never really talking about it, kissing in spare moments, arguing fairly regularly, one moment they were watching some ridiculous television show that Dean liked – Castiel was positive that one of the actors used to be in ‘ _Dr. Sexy’_ , but Dean refused to admit that was his reason for watching – and the next Castiel was leaning over him, breath hot against his neck, gasping, “Dean. _Dean,_ it’s fine.”, when Dean _asked permission_ to touch.

Squashed beside Castiel on the couch, after, legs tangled with his and his jeans still undone, Dean looks at him. “I dunno. I just feel like I’m not _allowed_.” He grins flippantly, like it’s something funny, but it makes Castiel wonder what else Dean has assumed he does not deserve, when he has saved the world so many times, has done so many things, lost so much. He doesn’t ask; he knows well enough now that psychoanalysis is Sam’s department, and it’s much better received from that direction. Instead, he laughs quietly.

“You’re allowed, Dean.”

Dean looks over at him. “Good.”

Xxx

They’ve been living together for a long time now, though the term is loose – Castiel leaves often on ‘business’, which is actually just wandering the earth, away from Dean for as long as he can stand, using the truck now to travel from state to state, waiting for a sign. He still hasn’t found one, and there is no explaining it to Dean, who would only tell him to stop, tell him all number of things about the callousness of God. He is more loath to leave every time he goes, and his grace fades more with each day; he’s started getting hungry now, has breakfast in the morning. He sleeps, too, when the mood takes him, and even enjoys it, though he finds it strange. Waking up, he tells Dean, is his favorite sensation when it comes to sleep. Dean calls him a fool for it.

Dean leaves too, though less often these days; he’ll be fifty-four in a few months, and though he doesn’t look it, he’s getting tired, no longer cut out for the high-profile hunts. He says, in moments of bluster, ‘fuck tiredness. I’ve been _tired_ since I was seven years old.’ But Castiel knows that _tiredness_ is not quite the word.

Castiel is invited to Christmas with Sam and Dean and his family, every year. He spends it mostly with the children; two of them now, a boy and a girl, who are mad about Dean and only tolerate Castiel, though he adores them. Children are interesting; Dean says the children like him better than Castiel because he’s too easy with his affection; he says that he should play his cards closer to his chest, ‘make ‘em work for it, Cas’. Though this is hard to believe when as Dean says it he lifts Sam’s small son onto his shoulders for yetanother piggyback around the kitchen.

It’s another situation where he cannot quite find a place to put himself, sitting mostly quiet as the others eat and talk and laugh, until Dean elbows him and tells him in his ear to stop being an idiot and eat some fucking turkey. He does, but feels no less awkward; with Dean he is something else, not an angel, quite, but still comfortable. He is less settled with other humans, though Sam has been a friend to him for a long time, now.

On the way home, in Dean’s beloved car, Dean looks over at him, sitting silently in the passenger seat. “You don’t like Christmas, huh?”

Castiel tilts his head at him. “Of course I like it.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling. “Could’a fooled me.” But his tone is easy, his smile not unkind. He slaps his palms against the steering wheel, and carries them home.

xxx

Dean misses it. He knows because his music is played less often; he frowns when no one is looking. When Castiel tells Sam this, though, he laughs.

“Is he _insane?_ He misses the junk food, the _fighting_ , the fucking _monsters?_ ”

Castiel has no answer for him; all he knows is that Dean’s sixtieth birthday is approaching, and yesterday morning he looked in the mirror, then at Castiel, and said “Jesus _christ_.”

Xxx

“He’s not okay, is he.” Sam’s voice is thin, and Castiel looks up from his tea, a much more agreeable drink, he finds, to catch his eye.

“He’s fine.” He’s a terrible liar. He’s never been able to master it. Sam knows.

“Okay.” Sam replies, sounding exhausted. His children are at school; they’re almost grown, they seem to double in size each time Castiel sees them, while he, frustratingly, remains entirely the same.

Dean changes in tiny ways each day. When they met he was thirty, _young,_ though he’d already seen far too much. Now some mornings he doesn’t get up at all; others he leaves the house without a word, gets into his car, comes back bloodied and silent. Castiel hasn’t gone on one of his private ‘missions’ in years, but Dean keeps hunting, though it is almost definitely killing him. If asked, he says it’s in his blood, and will say nothing more. Soon he’ll be sixty-two.

Sam understands Dean better than Castiel ever will, but even he cannot reason this way. Dean is _tired,_ tired in his bones, tired in every fiber of his being. And Castiel loves him. Heals him secretly then sleeps it off, has saved his life more times than Dean will ever know; but even he cannot heal this. There is no secret, no cure, for _life._ People quantify a life with years, but really, that’s not appropriate. Dean’s ‘condition’ is that even in such a short time, he has had entirely too much of _life;_ he is oversaturated with it, heavy, _exhausted_ in a way that no amount of sleep can ever truly fix. __

Xxx

He appears at Dean’s bedside, flying for the first time in almost ten years.

The only thing he can think to do is grab Dean’s hands, press them flat to his chest, breathe in deeply, hoping he can scrape together enough grace to purge Dean’s lungs of fluid, stop his labored breathing which, in his panic, Castiel has started to match. Dean pulls his hand out of Castiel’s grip and wraps it around his wrist, instead. “Hey. No mojo. You’ll hurt yourself.” He smiles faintly. “Again.” Dean’s voice is quiet, but there’s an edge of humor to it, and it’s not the first time Castiel hasn’t understood one of his jokes. Dean’s expression, and his grip, quickly soften. “Cas. C’mon.” he says gently, creases at the corners of his eyes. “Did you think you could just keep boostin’ me on forever? You think I _want_ to be the crypt keeper, still fucking hunting?” The empty hospital room, dark and strangely blue in the night air, is silent as Castiel attempts to reply.

“It’s not your time, Dean.” He lies, and through Dean’s warm hand he can feel Dean’s heart bobbing against his palm, his lungs shallowly rising and falling.

Dean laughs openly at him. “You’ve always been a fucking terrible liar.”

“What about Sam?” he counters, and Dean rolls his shoulders against the mattress, though the movement seems to hurt him.

“I saw him. We said what we had to. Said goodbye. He doesn’t want to see me go.” His eyes scan Castiel carefully. “Neither should you. _Sam’s_ worried he’ll do something stupid.” He says accusingly, and Castiel maintains his stare obstinately.

He can feel it ebbing away. Has always been able to feel Dean , in some form or another, has had his skin under his hands more times than he can count. Whatever is _Dean_ is leaving his body like tide; he can feel it so tangibly that it’s almost as if he could gather it in his hands and push it back in. He wants to try.

“Thirty fucking years.” Dean says, out of the blue, smirking still. Castiel’s vision is blurred. He can’t breathe properly. “You, and Sammy, and me.” His smirk widens. “ _You_ haven’t aged a fucking day.”

“There has to be a way to help you.” Castiel blurts, knowing that what he actually means is _please help me._ Dean’s hair is streaked grey, and brushes against his pillows when he shakes his head.

“Been there. Done that.” He hasn’t broken eye contact yet. Castiel’s lungs are empty, as if someone has punched him, very, very hard. “Had a pretty good run.” Castiel still has his hands against Dean’s chest. “Better than most.”

He tries to garble words. _Don’t go,_ selfish as it is, features heavily, because Castiel is hundreds of millions of years old and Dean Winchester, a boy who once saved the _world,_ has been alive for only _sixty three,_ and Castiel has all of time ahead of him to wander this planet, searching for nothing, without him somewhere on it.

It happens without much fanfare; Dean takes his last breath, expels what was left in his lungs, in the form of a long, lonely rattle.

Castiel thinks that now he knows what Anna meant by ‘worse’.

He presses the heel of his hand into Dean’s still chest.

“Tell me what to do.” He says quietly; to himself. To God. To whoever will listen. Silence, but for the low thrum of machines, the chatter outside Dean’s room, echoes around him. Hearing no response, he puts his other hand down, flattens it over Dean’s heart, then touches the mark on his shoulder, though he feels nothing from it now. “Tell me.” He says again, his vision blurring again, his head filled with liquid, ears swimming, noise coming in distorted and light pulsing, pounding across the backs of his eyes. “ _Please.”_

There is no answer from any direction.

xxx

Thirty years, in the life of an angel, is nothing. It registers not even as a bump - in the scheme of things, it doesn’t even really _register._ Thirty years, sixty, the lifetime of a man, passes for an angel like a second, and is easily wasted.

Castiel presses his hand against the bark of a tree, and listens. There are voices everywhere; in the earth. In the wakening sky.

This is what he has; voices from the trees. His search for an answer - which has been going on longer than he realized – the earth. And himself.


End file.
